Stuart pulls me close, kisses my neck. “Come back to bed.”

“In a bit, I’m in the middle of something.”

He persists.

I try to reciprocate, I really do, I don’t wish to ruin this moment. I follow him upstairs, as slowly as I can, my mind desperately searching for the right way to convey my reluctance in a tactful way.

The right words don’t come to me in time even though I want to stay downstairs, alone, in peace, and study the photos some more. There’s something about the image of Charlie, Camilla and Nina that feels unsettling but my mind can’t quite home in on what I think is wrong.

In bed, I mentally study the background: the sea, the boats, the horizon. But like an elusive Spot the Difference image, there’s nothing tangible that I can latch on to.

Perhaps I’m looking to the past to find answers when really, my life is here now. Somehow, right now, just the thought of the permanence of everything makes me flick back through all the pivotal moments to try to pinpoint exactly where I may have made a bad decision. The conclusion I come to is that there may have been many. It is not a comforting thought.

Thirty-Two

Most murders are committed by someone the victim is connected to. Mainly their spouses. Everyone knows that. Stuart is a middle-lane driver and it takes all of my self-control not to insist that I do all the driving. Thankfully, our route is predominantly non-motorway and the children are delighted because we stop at a burger place for lunch that offers free ice-cream desserts on the kids’ menu.

As we enter the open landscape of Dartmoor National Park, I relax. Following the quiet road leading to Greg’s address, I take in the scenery. Granite tors are visible against the green moorland. Occasional paths snake through the flatness, marking out potential walkways. My dad recently told me that we camped somewhere in the area when I was young, but nothing feels familiar.

When we pull up outside the stone cottage, I’m both apprehensive and delighted at its remote location. Inside, it is fairly dark. Some of the stone floor tiles are uneven, and there’s little natural light, but at least it’s fresh-smelling. (According to Camilla, Greg has someone who cleans, does a spot of gardening and keeps an eye.)

The stairs aren’t quite as horrendous as Camilla made out, but overall it’s the type of place that could be described as in need of improvement. There are five bedrooms. I let Felix, Emily and Louise choose their own. I have to hide the old-fashioned keys from the bedroom locks inside a chest of drawers in our room because the kids take immediate delight in locking each other (and themselves) in their rooms. The main bathroom is in definite need of immediate refurbishment, but the room we’ve picked has a fairly modern en suite. Stuart busies himself making up the beds with our own linen.